Were we an echo of an invented people who left in our wake as we fled from each other, belts of precious metals, pigment, spice, a perfect drop of water suspended in its singing. At the exit of the planetarium, a man with windy eyes spins a copper globe. A wall-gecko lashes its tongue across the blackness. I dream man as he was and always will be - rocks of white gold tumbling from his mouth - and awake, a sputtering coal in the grass, picking the arcto-boreal krill from another picnic's trash. In the forest of our quarrels lies the future buried, a museum still lit and selling tickets under the rubble of an exploded mountain our people once thought impenetrable. At port, a woman is unfurling her body beneath the spiraled dive of frigate birds. Her last breath - a watercolor, stolen by salt - the flutter of a star's ignition.
In the forest of our quarrels lies the future
‹Also in this Issue›
Detour in the Canopy
Most of the poison falls on the crops but some also reaches the trees that survived the logging, where the tanager is resting, as a toxic dew that burns flesh and clouds eyes.
“One day, you will learn,” the woman said, “inshallah.” She was talking about the language, but to me her words prophesied a more transcendent lesson.
Lorde teaches us that our loved ones are everywhere if only we are listening. And are we listening?
The Woman with No Face
Because she was a daughter, my aunt was given away as a baby. She was adopted into a no-faced family.